


To the End

by Dream Mender (Llewcie)



Series: Skull and Key [2]
Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bob being Inappropriate, Kissing, M/M, Snark, poor connie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Dream%20Mender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter One: Bob meets Murphy and is completely inappropriate, as usual.<br/>Chapter Two: Harry's POV, 1st Person (I feel like i should warn for this, but in Dresden Files it's the norm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello, Harry?” Detective Murphy’s strident voice rang out through the small front room of the shop. “You in?”

Bob’s attention wavered from the delicate papyrus grimore he had been perusing, and his vision swam for a disorienting moment as objects within the room rearranged themselves back to their proper spatial orientations. He blinked at the door, brow furrowed in a mildly annoyed frown, but closed the sheaf of papers on a thin, rune-spelled ribbon and stood. So. Murphy had come at last. This would be at least as entertaining as Imhotep’s mind-bending dissertations on the fluidity of reality. 

Murphy must have caught his movement out of the corner of her eye because she opened the door and crossed the threshold. She and Harry had developed a rule since the drake incident, although he hadn’t, in so many words, told her the reason—he just asked her to come on in uninvited, and had asked her to refrain from asking him into her house as well—just in case. But she stopped short on seeing Bob, and her eyes widened as she drew in all the details of him.

He tried to imagine what she was seeing, and the conclusions she might draw. He was wearing a grey silk button-down—one of Charlie’s shirts—but the collar was undone several buttons, leaving his throat exposed, and his sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. Still, it was tucked—he wasn’t a complete heathen—into a pair of Harry’s jeans. Whoops. Well, that was slightly telling. And in the spare weeks of his new birth, he had yet to sink so low as to even look slantways at a pair of tennis shoes—bless Charlie for finding him soft Italian leather—black, of course. He loved that man, truly. He kept his expression completely bland—at this, there was no one on earth with more practice than he. 

Her eyes slowly trailed down his face and body, taking it all in. He saw both the detective and the woman there, showing interest, and his eyes lit up with a tiny, predatory gleam as he stood still, allowing the examination, curious as to her reaction. 

She went right to a bland smile. “Oh. I’m sorry—is Harry here?”

Point to Murphy—the woman was good at hiding first impressions. Bob was impressed. He shifted his weight, very slightly, and noticed her eyes flicking to his hips and back. So—not so uninterested, dear Lieutenant? “No, I’m afraid not. Is there anything I can help you with, Detective?”

She caught it immediately, her dark eyes jumping to his pale blue—the realization that he knew her on sight. Her expression narrowed, barely. Very subtle. “Have we met, Mr…?”

He cocked his head slightly, exposing a flash of pale throat, pretending to think. Her eyes didn’t move from his face, although she didn’t meet his gaze. His brow furrowed slightly- he wondered if she had learned from experience, and if so, if she had soulgazed Harry. A jealous burn surged through his stomach. This woman had spent so many hours in Harry’s company, while he had paced the shop, alone and frustrated. Friend or no, Harry had kissed her. He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe so. But Harry has spoken of you.” He let that sink in, and then extended his hand. “Robert Bainbridge, at your service.”

That blew her cool right out—his old world charm, Harry would have called it, and she smiled, taking his hand. Her fingers were thin but strong; her handshake firm but not overpowering; she wasn’t trying to impress him with her strength. Her aura jumped right to him through her touch, and it was the bright gold-white aura of a warrior—a paladin. 

Well. That was interesting. No wonder Harry could never say no to her. 

He must have looked startled, and he had certainly forgotten to let go of her hand, because she had to give it a little tug before he remembered to release her. He blinked, and gave her a contrite smile. “My apologies. You have quite a powerful aura.”

She blinked, clearly uncertain whether that was a compliment or just a statement, like telling her that she had very brown hair, or that he was quite certain she had ten fingers. Her brow creased lightly. “Are you a… client of Harry’s, Mr. Bainbridge?”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. She wouldn’t have hit so far off the mark has she not already had suspicions at the other end of the spectrum. Bob flicked with quicksilver fluidity through several possible responses. He could agree that he was indeed a client—the outright lie that would eventually be discovered. Harry might be perturbed, and Murphy would most certainly be... 

He could deny that he was without telling her any thing else—the stonewall. 

Not particularly polite. 

He could tell her a bland semi-truth—that he was Harry’s associate. Harry might like that, as it didn’t implicate anyone, but she would ask questions that he wouldn’t be able to answer. 

Then there was the possibility of truth. Bob could tell her that he and Harry were lovers—something she might already suspect, and that they were wizards-in-arms, bound brothers until the end of days. That was the personal, most intimate truth, and it felt invasive. 

Or he could tell her the absolute truth—that he had been Harry’s ghost, a cursed wizard of terrible power bound in a nutshell, master of finite space, until he had been released by a dragon mere weeks before. But he was fairly certain that Murphy was still considered a Straight. So, that was right out.

Hmm. He had missed this dance, so very much.

Well then, a simple truth, one that Harry could live with, that didn’t take into account the present. “I was Harry’s mentor and teacher, when he was younger.” 

Murphy cocked her head at him, studying his features more closely. “You don’t look old enough to have been his teacher. You can’t be a day over fifty, or I’ll eat my badge.” Her voice had softened considerably as she came closer to him, and he could feel her very feminine energy radiate outward, washing over him.

He smiled wryly at her. “Before you consent to devour any more hardware, I caution you—I am considerably older than I give the impression of being.”

“Wizard, too?” 

“As you say.” He wondered how much stock she put in that title, and if it was more than Harry gave her credit for. After all, she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She nodded.

“Mind if I wait here for him?” He got the impression that she wasn’t really asking his permission.

“You choose the value of your own time, Miss Murphy.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, Mr. Bainbridge.”

Ah, the formality game. He admired her more and more with each exchange. “Robert, please, Lieutenant. And if you have interrupted, that doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t find your company more charming than that of my studies.” His eyes crinkled, gently, and she blushed. He wondered again at the manners of this age, if such a capable, beautiful young woman could be flustered by his charm when he was hardly even trying.

“What are you studying?” she asked, peering at the papyrus.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Imhotep. He built the pyramids, among other things.” Like developing the science for teleportation using stars as guidepoints, and bottling souls in containers. Like skulls. Imhotep and he were going to have a few Words, one of these fine days. Murphy nodded noncommittally, and looked at her watch. The she shook it. 

“Damn. I just bought this, and it stops working?” She scowled. Then her attention refocused on Bob. “So, Robert. You were Harry’s teacher when he was young. You taught him, what? Magic? Wizarding? Is that even a word?”

Bob smiled urbanely. “I taught Harry math, and languages. Calculus, arithrimancy, Latin, Greek… some more obscure branches of the arts and sciences.”

She tried from a different angle. “His uncle was pretty rich, to afford a private tutor.”

He found himself wanting to continue the conversation. She was a mere foot from him, her hip angled away, and her dark eyes and hair reminded him of the women of the islands of Greece—dark beauty and sharp wit that could flay the skin off your bones. He had spent many nights, enjoying the battle for flesh. He thought he might know what would intrigue her. “Harry is a prince of sorts, in his circles. His uncle couldn’t afford not to tutor him.” 

She snorted. “A prince of what? Bad dress sense?” But she turned, very slightly, and Bob could feel the hum of their auras intersecting more powerfully. Gooseflesh shot up his arms. Point to him.

He smiled, showing the glint of his canines. “Oh, my dear. Despite his outward appearances, he makes quite a few people very nervous. His work for you contributes to that.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You brought him a case, didn’t you?”

“That’s for Harry to see, Robert.” She showed teeth in her smile, now—the warrior leaking out. He circled her, forcing her to turn, her body movement mapping his. The dance was now an allemande, even if their hands did not touch. She was wary. He was delighted. “What sort of student was Harry?” 

Bob had positioned her now between his body and the couch. It took her two seconds flat to notice, and her nostrils flared delicately. To distract her, he told her the truth. “He was intelligent, and pensive. Lonely.” How lonely they both had been, until the day that Harry had mastered the Dreaming…

That had been a good day. Night, actually. Nights…

Murphy was looking at him strangely. Ah, whoops, again. He swallowed, and blinked at her, trying to refocus. “Terrible at calculations, though. Hopeless.” He smirked, eyebrows raised, and she smiled back at him. He saw the question form in her eyes, anticipated it even as she leaned on the couch-back, letting her aura flood him straight on. Heady, that. 

“Robert, may I ask you something? And this might sound crazy, or too-personal, or none of my business, but are you and Harry… seeing each other?” It wasn’t really a question, after all. He could feel the heat behind that one—she was angry. Betrayed, maybe. Still not shifting away from him. He found her fascinating—so strong, and so unafraid. 

“What makes you come to such a conclusion, Detective?” he murmured, canting his head slightly to the side. She blinked, and then looked down at his body, as if all the sudden realizing how close he was. But there was nowhere for her to go, and he had given her no reason to run. Yet. She settled for crossing her arms, which earned her a smirk. 

“First, you’re wearing his jeans. That shirt fits you perfectly but the jeans are too big.” Her eyebrows quirked upward, and he conceded he point with a nod. “Second, I ask you what sort of student he was, and you tell me he’s a lonely one. Clearly, that’s a lover, not a teacher doing the talking.” She was smiling, getting cocky now. Bob narrowed his eyes a bit at her, disarmed. She wasn’t finished. “And third, and this is the part I don’t understand, but I felt like I left a piece of myself behind when I crossed over your door.”

Bob blinked, taken aback. “That’s odd, Detective. Are you well?” 

Murphy nodded. “Yeah. You know, I never understood when Harry talked about it—how he would ask permission to come in, and when he told me not to? But I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched, and it didn’t used to feel that way. He says it feels like that when he walks into my house, because there’s been so much… love, there.” She trailed off, realizing what she was saying, and what it meant. Grief, and loss flickered across her eyes before she closed up into near-expressionless confusion. 

Bob was speechless. He had completely lost his thread. To think that in just a few weeks that Harry could have felt so much, to have altered the make-up of his own threshold. That Harry felt that, for him. He nodded slowly at Murphy, who was staring at him again. “Harry thinks very highly of you. I can see that our relationship will likely be more of the same.”

Her expression turned slowly from confusion to wonder. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“Why do you ask him to help you on these cases, Detective?” He frowned at her, regaining his self-possession. Enough with the confessions when Harry wasn’t here to defend himself. Not that he could do anything against this woman.

“Because I get closed cases. He gets the job done,” she answered quickly, on firmer ground here. 

“Do you understand the how or the why?”

She frowned, clearly on the outside on this one. “Hardly ever. Ant vomit—what’s up with that?”

Bob pursed his lips, and then reached out and threaded his fingers very gently through her thick, dark hair. She didn’t pull away. He wasn’t using any thrall over her, but for some reason, she let him, all the same. Paladins and Necromancers normally weren’t particularly compatible—perhaps, Bob mused, it was that they had Harry in common. “Nor can I explain to you how a man like Harry can make the decisions that he makes to love the people whom he does… no matter how undeserving they might think themselves.” His fingers stroked down her neck, soothing and gentle. 

Murphy leaned into his hand, very slightly, and nodded. “Yeah. That sounds like Harry.” Her voice was pained. He sighed, and pulled her into his arms, rocking her softly. Her body was both hard and soft, and his hands took in her contours in a disconnected manner. “Damn,” she whispered.

“He treasures you, my dear,” he murmured into her hair, which smelled of spring in the city. Her shoulders shrugged, noncommittal.

“Sure.” Her voice was muffled. “You know, I lay awake a few nights, thinking about that stupid kiss. And it didn’t mean anything. Pathetic, right?” She caught his gaze, just for a second, and he saw the pain there, no matter how good she was at covering it up. 

He took her chin in his hand and shook his head slowly. And. Well. He had no excuse but gravity. Magnetic fields. The pull of her magnificent aura. He bent his head and kissed her.

Murphy relaxed into him, her lips parting, tasting him delicately—butterflying her tongue at his bottom lip. And then, warm, wanting more, they both took a breath at the same time, fingers tightening on the backs of each other’s necks. He might have bitten down on her bottom lip. It was possible.

She stiffened, as if she had just realized whose arms she wasn’t in, and that this was a stranger, regardless of how he knew her. Bob loosened his hold immediately, allowing her to fall back, a wry smile flitting about on his mouth, now flushed.

“I'm so sorry. I... Harry will tell you I'm not properly broken to this time's rules...”

Murphy was not looking at him. She curled her bottom lip into her mouth, savoring, her eyes closed. "You taste... you taste like the rain, just when the sun goes down." Her hands tightened on the back of his neck, and trembled, as if she wanted to pull him back down. 

"So, who’s a better kisser?" Harry's low amused voice cut rumbled across them both, slicing through the tension building between them. Her eyes widened, and she drew her defenses up like armor around her. 

”Harry!” Her olive skin flushed peach. Bob didn’t let her squirm free. He grinned at Harry, who was propped on the desk and looked quite comfortable there. He must have been sitting there for quite some time. She struggled for her voice, and when she found it, managed a saucy grin, even half-pressed against Bob. "It's been a while--I'd have to do a side by side comparison."

Harry’s and Bob’s eyes both turned two shades darker, at least, and Murphy ducked out of Bob’s grasp very quickly. “Not today, gentlemen!” she squeaked. “I brought a case!” But Harry reached out with a long arm and snagged her coat sleeve, and rolled her up into a hug, ignoring her protests.

“Murphy, you’re such a tease,” he rumbled into her ear. She struggled playfully to get away from him, and finally wriggled free, much to his and Bob’s entertainment. Now thoroughly exasperated, she grabbed the file and thrust it in Harry’s face.

“Here. Thought you might like to get paid this week. Am I wrong?” Harry took the file from her, his eyes still too dark, and waved it back at her.

“What’s in it?”

She blushed, flicking a glance at Bob, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. “I forget. You can read, can’t you? Missing person case. I gotta go. Late for a… meeting.” She headed for the door as if it were the last glimpse of daylight. Bob watched her go, lips parted, and didn’t miss the final parting, disbelieving glance she shot in his direction. 

Harry, however, was watching Bob. “Oh, Bainbridge, what did you do to Murphy?” he chided, as Bob slowly turned a questioning gaze his way. 

“Do? To the good Lieutenant? Harry, you wound me.” Bob dove for his best injured expression, to which Harry responded with a playful frown as he ambled over and stood in front of his long-time companion. Bob’s face relaxed into a grin, and Harry smirked.

“I can’t leave you alone for an afternoon and you’re seducing my girlfriends…” He stroked his hand over Bob’s forearm, lightly. Bob arched an eyebrow.

“That woman is quite distraught over you, Harry, my boy.”

“Which would explain why she was kissing you, I guess?”

“I offered comfort.”

“For the low, low price of her soul…” Harry sank further toward him, drawn by that same magnetic pull that had tugged Murphy too close to the whirlpool to escape. Bob made a soft humming sound in his throat.

“So then, what of your soul then, sweet child?” He gazed at Harry’s mouth, teeth glinting, until Harry got too close. Meeting, Harry’s eyes, brown to sea-green, he caught the utter fascination there.

“Soul? You keep it safe for me, Bob.” Harry touched his lips to Bob’s, stroking slowly back and forth with deeper penetration on every pass. Bob tilted his head up slightly, taking Harry’s heavy bottom lip between his teeth and making light indentations in the russet flesh. Harry used Bob’s shoulders for balance as he rocked his hips inward, craving contact. A grunt forced its way out Bob’s throat as his cock fetched up sharply against Harry’s, separated by too many layers of clothing. Bob broke the kiss for a moment, pressing his hips forward with urgent firmness. 

“You remember, Harry, in Casablanca, when Ilsa asks Rick to do the thinking for both of them?” he whispered roughly.

Harry nodded, nosing Bob’s cheek softly. He hmmed a throaty acknowledgment. 

“Off camera,” Bob continued, nipping at Harry’s neck, “they fucked like bunnies.”


	2. Chapter 2

Like the old saying went, never allow a man to get fucked, because he’ll love it so much he’ll never go back. Well, in our case, we’d both fucked each other and loved playing bottom so much that we’d often have a playful tussle for it. This time I wanted Bob on top. Watching him handle the man-despising, Chivalry-is-dead-because-I-killed-it Murphy and have her want to dive in for more really got my motor running hot and I wanted to roll over and let him handle me, too—gods, yes. He must have still been feeling high on her energy because when we got upstairs he hooked a foot around my ankle and tripped me so that I fell heavily across the bed.  
  
That, and the dark expression in his normally pale sea-glass eyes that spoke of complete and total ownership of my soul, and I was going to get my wish. That is, if I didn’t just come right then and there from the intense hotness that is my lover. I must be the luckiest man alive.  
  
“So, Harry,” he began casually, his eyes flicking over my prone body. I was wearing one of the tailored shirts and pants that Charlie had made for us—you know, they really were good for business. Bob licked his lips, and I amended that to ‘really, really good’ for business. All kinds of business. I swallowed. “How long?” His voice was the precise tone of casual that normally made people break out in a cold sweat, if he happened to be between them and the door.   
  
He always was.  
  
“I heard a bit about the threshold from the kitchen, so I got curious. I didn’t sneak in until you were… busy.” I couldn’t help the smirk. His eyebrows shot up.  
  
“Your veil is getting better, Harry.”  
  
I blushed at his honest praise, from teacher to student, still after all these years. Veils aren’t my specialty. I’m more of a big hulking Neanderthal when it comes to magic—just call me Caveman Og, and hand me that stick. Veils were delicate, and I _had_ been practicing. “I was motivated.”  
  
“Mmm, spying tends to do that.” There was a glint in his eye that I had seen once or thrice that meant this wasn’t going to be soft, cuddly sex. He advanced on me, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand—Bob has agile fingers, believe me. Agile and very strong. I sat up on my elbows just to watch him undress.  
  
I know it really hasn’t been that long since Bob’s been corporeal. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, but I doubt it. I cannot get enough of watching him shed layers of clothing, because to me, that’s proof that he’s here with me—alive and breathing. And the taking off clothes in front of me? Well, that’s proof that he’s my lover. Boyfriend sounds too temporary. Bob is my Other. He is my Yin, or my Yang—I don’t even know which. But enough poetry—Bob was taking off his _shirt_.  
  
If he had ever wanted to make a living on the side, he could have done it stripteasing for a club—provided it was very high-class. Seriously. He crossed his arms and slid his hands underneath the unbuttoned edges of the shirt all the way to the waist, and left the silky fabric gaping open across his chest and abs. Oh, stars and stones, I know I was off the bed a couple of inches. If I didn’t get out of these pants fast I was gonna make a mess.  
  
“Bob, c’mere…” My hips rolled towards him, helplessly, his hands still on their downward path across his own hips, the bulge of his cock, his thighs. Dizzily, I noticed he was wearing my jeans. Again.  
  
“What do you want, Harry?” His voice was silk over granite. Oh Hell’s Bells, he wanted me to be articulate? Oh, but this also meant I got to pick! I leaned my head back all the way, stretching my body out before him like a banquet.   
  
“Please, suck me, gods, and then fuck me until neither of us can move, Bob.” I had learned that he took suggestions and ran with them, but he was a fantastic lover, no matter which direction he took my desires. And he always wanted to know.   
  
“My beautiful, demanding Harry,” he snarked lovingly. I heard him move quickly—the man is part-panther—and a heated hand slid up under my shirt, gently lifting it upwards and working open the buttons. I fell back under him—he had slipped up onto the bed to straddle my hips and his thighs were a hot pressure against mine. When he got to my collar, he smiled at me in that really dangerous way that makes all the hair on my body stand up on end, and simply lifted the shirt over my head like a hood—with a few quick knots and before I could effectively protest, he had hooded and gartered me like a falcon. I couldn’t move my arms and I couldn’t see.  
  
I told you he only takes suggestions. “So you’re mad that I eavesdropped?” I ventured.  
  
“No, Harry,” he drawled, his light fingertips curling through my chest hair achingly slow. He definitely sounded amused. “Just trading a veil for a veil.” Oh—this was about balance. And then his lips sucked at my nipple, and I forgot about all philosophical puzzles.   
  
It doesn’t seem fair that all the genetic aces could be put in one basket. Lips, body, wit, talent, lips… oh, right. But then, I remembered that Bob was _my_ Necromancer, and all really did seem all right with the world. He bit and nipped and kissed his way down my ribs and belly until I was writhing so much I’m sure he wished he had tied me to something.  
  
When he got to the waistband of my pants he had to hold me down. I was already begging and he hadn’t even touched me below the navel. Bob undid the clasp of my pants slowly, his fingers and thumbs brushing gently over my raging erection while I panted and murmured incoherently, my breath sucking in and out neatly between the long gaps between buttons. Bob undid the hook and clasp fly, which was really really good for me—I sent a silent prayer of thanks to my tailor—and the cool air of the flat hit my cock as it sprang free. And then even _cooler_ air washed over the head—my hips bucked but Bob’s hands held me down gently. “Bob.. .please oh please…”  
  
I was going to die before he took me into his mouth. I was going to _die_. A tiny flick of wet heat touched my tip, and I arched, groaning, begging. More bold, another, and another cooling breath of air. I don’t think I could make words anymore. And then, thrillingly, his heat and wet tight suction was all around my cock head, sucking smoothly and deeply in a rhythm that had my hips struggling to rise against his hands. I was keening and gasping in relief and arousal and just… crying his name, over and over. Bob, gods, Bob… please, yes…oh, God.  
  
I’m sure he tied up my arms because he doesn’t like my hands in his hair. He sets his own pace, like with everything else. But right now he was going deeper, taking me in—gods!—further than I had thought possible, and ah, ngh! He swallowed, his throat muscles working around the head of my cock, before pulling all the way out and licking me root to tip. Not being able to see lent itself to all sort of erotic unknowns. When Bob began to flick his tongue over my tip, butterflying the head with one hand gently keeping the rhythm of the stroke, my entire body started to shake. Just… when I couldn’t take any more of that, he swallowed me all the way to the root again, and set up a steady, mind-blowing sucking.  
  
I was thrashing on the bed—I had totally lost control. It was all he could do, I’m certain, to hold me down. And then, my eyes lost focus and the fireworks built up in the base of my spine in a rolling heat that could not be stopped. Every muscle in my body clenched as hard as iron, and I roared something inarticulate—gods, I hope it wasn’t a spell!—and came violently while he still had me in up to the hilt. He held on to my hips and took in my shot—I felt his throat muscles working as he swallowed.   
  
In that moment, I would have killed for him. I guess that might not make me one of the good guys, but right then, I didn’t much care.  
  
When he was free of me, he immediately climbed up my body and loosened the shirt, tugging it off with a few quick pulls and, taking my head in his hands, he kissed my coyly, licking my lips, cat-like. When I was able to focus on him, and my breath calmed a bit, I stroked a hand down his back and back up to his neck where I could pull him down for a deep, grinding kiss. He flexed and pulled against me, his cock hard and still trapped in his pants. I realized, in my sex-addled brain, that he was still half-in his shirt. He smiled down at me, his hand stroking back my hair. “I think you’re still due for a thorough fucking, Harry Dresden.”  
  
“I want you see you out of those clothes, Bob.” My hands flew to his waist, and he tried to stop me, but I had taken him by surprise. Truth is, I thought I might have owed him a little for hooding me, and he had gotten my blood up—I was feeling fierce. I tugged his shirt out before he could block my hands and suddenly we were in a wrestling match.  
  
Now, if you were to ask me which of us is stronger, I’d have to ask for qualifications. Arm wrestling, Bob has me beat flat out—for sheer upper-body strength he makes me look like a little girl, and I’m no lightweight. He should know—he taught me how to fence. Leg strength, though, is a different matter—I’m a bit longer and that gives me leverage that he can’t bring to the mat… or in this case, the bedroom. So in a full our wrestle across the bed, when I was highly motivated and I could get at least one of his arms immobilized, I had a hand-basket’s chance in hell.  
  
Unfortunately for me, he started out on top, and I was still recuperating from the most astounding blowjob of my tender years. The best I could manage was to lock his legs between mine and get my hands up underneath his shirt, and that turned out to be a very compromising position. He grinned down at me. “Didn’t plan that all the way out, did you, Harry?”  
  
I gave him a soft, sheepish smile. “My brain’s a little scattered, Bob.” His grin turned sly—dangerous—and he rocked his hips up against me, his very hard cock blunting up against the point where my gland connects on the outside—the hard knot between the root of my cock and my hole. I had trapped myself, my legs spread wide, and he was taking full advantage. Every time he tapped me, my brain exploded in a beacon of red sulpher light. I arched and writhed but I was his, soul deep. My hands were helping him rock now—all I wanted was the sensation of him against me. Fingers caught silver hair and stroked, and my mouth caught his. We kissed, and we kissed until he bent his lips to my ear.  
  
“Harry,” he murmured darkly. “I want to take you facing me. Want to see your eyes, kiss you…Let me go for a moment. Too many clothes.” Bob was half-incoherent. I think my heart died of love right there in that moment. I loosed my grip on him and he slid off the bed, standing shakily and shedding his clothes. I watched, but I can’t tell you that I saw anything but his eyes, watching me back. He then lifted my hips and tugged off my pants. I think I helped.  
  
When he climbed back on the bed he didn’t climb fully back on me, but stopped below my hips. This was not a position we had practiced very much in our short time as lovers. The first time we had tried it, it hadn’t worked at all, and amidst much smirking and thigh-kissing he had turned me over and taken me hard from behind. There is nothing that cannot be overcome if one has options. Right now I had a great view of Bob in all his pale glory, and let me tell you, the man was a Roman god. He was Mars, shed of his armor, naked in front of me—all thoughts of wolf and war aside for the moment. I swallowed, robbed of words. He leaned down and kissed my hip, and ran his tongue along the crease at the top of my thigh, and murmured something that sounded like, “…my Eros.”  
  
“Bob…” My voice shivered. He shushed me, his breath hot on my skin, and bit down lightly at the flesh right at the base of my cock. I tried again, my mind going. “Bob, promise me…” That brought him back up, just for a moment. His pale green eyes focused on me, and he ran his hand over one thigh and across my balls, very lightly. I choked, and he smiled very slightly. Still, I pressed on. “Promise me… if you ever go to war… I go with you.” There. I could give in, now.  
  
His hand stilled, and he studied me behind half-lidded eyes. A small nod betrayed his stillness. “To the end, Harry.” That was all he said. It was enough. I leaned back, my hand reaching for the drawer with the small bottle of lube. He had waited long enough. I flicked it to him, and he caught it, smiling. “About damn time, Dresden. You are going to need a cane.”   
  
The heated growl in his voice thrilled me. I can’t help it—when he uses that voice with me, I go to pieces. Bob lifted me up onto his bare thighs and reached underneath me without hesitation, his lube-slicked fingers stroking hot across my entrance and drawing a soft cry out of me. He pressed one finger slowly in as I rocked helplessly underneath him, and then leaned down and nipped at my stomach, his teeth closing on my tender skin until it hurt. At the same time, his long, strong finger flicked across my prostate. I blew the lightbulb in the hall downstairs into a million pieces. “Harry… I love you,” he whispered against my skin. And then he gently withdrew his finger, slicked his heavy, beautiful cock with one quick motion, and slowly, achingly pressed into me.  
  
It hurt, a little, but gods, I wanted it to. Everything about us hurt, from where we had come from, to what we had to do to get here. The pain was my grounding, and I needed it. I reached for his wrists and tried to drag him forward but he slapped my hands away, straining for his own rhythm. And then he began nicking my gland, and I arched, keening, slackening my hips so that he could thrust deeper as he pressed down on the backs of my thighs. White bolts of shuddering pleasure shot through me at each graze—the man has deadly aim—and I didn’t try again to pull him forward—I was too busy hanging on to the bed as he slammed into me.  
  
By this time he had risen up on his knees and he was actually holding me in the air and pulling me into him—I could do nothing but slide helplessly, wantonly back and forth, feeling the slow burning build to orgasm that was thrumming and sweet and so much different than what I had just felt. Bob was focused on me, his eyes dark and vulnerable, a door left open for me and me only in the wilderness. I never closed my eyes, not once, but now I reached out to him to close my hand over his, where his was gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.  
  
These bruises I never healed. They were mine. He was mine. His rhythm began to falter, shaky and erratic, and he lowered me to the bed none too gently. I chuffed a breathless laugh and he rocked over me, his hips thrusting harder, and now I could move _with_ him. Bob leaned in to kiss me, and he panted into my mouth, panting my name, more than once. I bit his lip—I don’t know how hard, but he roared at me, his pace punishing now. I could taste blood, and I reached for him, dragged him back, and licked his lips clean again. He growled into me, more wild than man… my _gŵrmage_ \-- and sweating, shaking, and bowing his back, pressing his head against my rib cage, he shuddered into the most erotic orgasm I have ever seen. The bucking of his hips, the clutching of his nails into my ribs, and the expression of feral abandon in his eyes sent me over. I wailed until my throat went. I don’t know what. All I knew was him.   
  
Bob collapsed against me, and then remembered that he was still inside me, and he raised himself back up to pull gently out. The pain was sharp and I felt the snap of it in my spine. I winced, and he smiled, coming down to lick at the salt sweat on my neck. I slid my arm around his damp, hot skin and snuggled against him. Our bodies fit so well together—even our hips, if we adjusted a little. I purred into his neck as he kissed my ear. “I love you,” he whispered again.  
  
“You belong to me,” I whispered back. I felt him smile.  
  
“You bit me, Dresden, you bastard,” he drawled lazily. I pulled out a bit to draw a finger across his lip. I had bitten him, and pretty deeply. I kissed him gently, tasting blood again, but not so much.  
  
“Want me to heal you?” I murmured.  
  
He didn’t answer, but only looked at me, and then down at the bruises forming on my hips. I nodded—had figured as much. We fell asleep like that, crushed together on the bed, not bothering even with any of the niceties. It was raw and messy, and I’m certain that nothing electrical in either building that bordered us was going to work in the morning, much less our coffee maker, but I didn’t give a damn.   
  
Because… _to the end, Harry._ That’s what he had said. To the end. May it be a thousand years down the road.


End file.
